


Training Grounds

by EagleofMasyaf (roelani), TheSwordKing



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:46:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roelani/pseuds/EagleofMasyaf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSwordKing/pseuds/TheSwordKing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair stumbles on Malik in the middle of some privet swords practice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was done as a prose type RP with EagleofMaysaf. She played Altair I played Malik.

There was a small training ground in Jerusalem that was rarely used by the assassins there. Guards tended to keep them on their feet. Malik went there as often as he could manage it; he refused to allow himself to get rusty just because he was assigned some degrading desk job.

Malik took pains to practice alone after Solomon’s temple. He refused to allow himself to be gawked at like some kind of side show. It’d taken a long time for him to regain the balance he’d lost with his arm, but once he did that the rest had been easy. He’d always preferred lighter swords, using a sword and dagger style before the loss of his arm, so he hadn’t had to relearn much.

The Dai’s blade carved through the night air as he dueled with his shadow. He’d removed his Dai’s robes and left them folded on the ground outside of the practice ring. His eyes where closed as he brought the blade up to chest level, paused a moment then began a complex routine that built speed as he moved. It was one of his favorites, full of complex whirls and thrusts that was not meant for use in a true fight but worked every muscle as if it was a real fight.

Altaïr rarely visited the Jerusalem training circle; it was out of the way, on the other side of the poor district, and often empty. He seldom had time enough to spare to afford himself the luxury of training, but an occasional visit sometimes afforded him the opportunity to spar and expend some unwanted energy. Ancient, unmaintained training dummies littered the sandy floor and Altaïr would, once in a while, make the long trek on the off chance that a few of the younger assassins could be spurred into sparring matches.

As he approached the usually deserted circle this night, a lone shadow detached itself from the gloom, and Altaïr paused at the entrance of the alley. No inexperienced novice trained there tonight; as he watched from a distance, he could recognize the easy, practiced ease in the movements as the man executed an impressive training routine. He scowled slightly as he approached, finally recognizing the shape as that of Malik.

He kept to the edge of the ring, circling slowly and watching as the Dai moved through the complex dance, the slim edge of his blade stabbing quickly at the darkness around him. Staring intently at the one-armed Dai, Altaïr shuffled closer silently, crossing his arms over his chest; he hadn’t even known Malik was still training, and from the looks of it, had been doing so for a long while. If anything, his movements were now even more controlled and precise than Altaïr remembered.

“I did not know you came here, Dai,” he voiced into the night air, still frowning slightly.

Malik twisted the sword in a rapid corkscrew movement that he favoured when disarming an enemy, the wickedly sharp blade flashing in the faint moonlight. The blade arced around its invisible opponent and twisted around under it in a manner that would slice across the knuckles of the opposing blade’s wielder.

It was a deceptively flashy disarm; from the end of the corkscrew Malik slid his left foot around, turning sharply, and moved into a twisting movement that would lead into a parry when completed.

The words snapped Malik out of the slight trance the routine had put him in, his dark eyes snapped open as he aborted the twisting parry he’d been executing to whip around and point his blade at Altaïr’s throat. He shot the other man a furious look, somewhat embarrassed that Altaïr had managed to approach him without his notice.

“I did not know it mattered, Altaïr,” he snarled. He would have to find another place to practice in peace after this; it would not do to have Altaïr creeping up on him every time he was trying to practice. He kept his sword aimed at Altaïr’s throat and glared. He was flushed and breathing harder than usual, but no more than was normal for what he’d been doing.

Altaïr fought his instinct to step back as the blade whipped towards him; he’d been watching Malik’s movements intently and hadn’t expected the man to round on him so suddenly. The very tip of the blade rested unwaveringly a few scant inches from his adam’s apple, and he forced his shoulders into a tense shrug. The Dai’s question hung in the air between them and he wasn’t now certain how to answer.

Malik’s skin shone with a slight sheen of sweat and both the harsh set of his jaw and the angry flare in his eyes told Altaïr to tread carefully. It was, however, somewhat exhilarating to see the dark-haired man like this, disheveled, flushed and breathing hard. Altaïr had not expected to run into him like this tonight and his earlier thoughts of sparring floated back into his mind.

He reached up and pushed at the blade of the sword at his throat slightly. “It hardly does. I’m simply surprised to find you here; I was expecting to find an empty ring,” he said with another forced shrug.

The opportunity suddenly seemed too good to pass up, and Altaïr stared at Malik from under his hood, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “You train with your shadow, Dai. Care to test your blade against steel?”

“My shadow is more of an opponent than your steel could ever be, Altaïr,” Malik snapped back, his dark eyes taking in Altaïr’s tense stance and slight smirk. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as his temper flared.

The last time they’d spared had been before the disaster at Solomon’s temple. Malik found himself wondering if Altaïr had learned anything since that time. He doubted it, considering how busy the man was. He had known that Altaïr goaded the novices into sparring with him from time to time. He allowed it because it taught the novices more than it hurt them.

He was going to goad Altaïr into losing his temper, then chase him around the ring like the irritating novice he was. It was a horrible way to vent his temper but he found he didn’t care.

Altaïr frowned, slapping his hand against Malik’s sword, this time harder, and pushing it aside. A small bell of warning echoed in his mind as he advanced on the Dai, but he forced it down and ignored it. Circling around Malik, Altaïr stalked to the man’s unguarded left side, shifting slightly and widening his stance.

“Is it? Or are you simply afraid to face me?” he asked through gritted teeth. It was impossible to back down now; a challenge had clearly been issued, and while Malik’s sword still seemed as sharp and swift as ever, there was no way he could possibly let this slide.

He raised his hand and reached for his knife, drawing it out of its scabbard at his back with a sharp hiss. He teased its edge with a finger lightly, then flipped it around in his hand and pointed it at Malik. “You have not fought in ages, Dai; clearly a bit of practice would do you no harm,” he said, allowing the smirk to tease at the corners of his lips again.

Malik’s sneer turned into a snarl. “Afraid to face you, Altaïr? Have you forgotten the last six times we’ve sparred? How you lost /every time/?” He scoffed, turning as Altaïr circled him, keeping his sword raised and between them. “And when was the last time you fought something other than brain dead guards or picked on novices, Altaïr?”

His dark eyes followed Altaïr’s hand as he drew his knife; he widened his stance and angled his sword into an apparently sloppy guard. Let Altaïr think him out of practice, it’d serve as a better lesson for him. Scowling darkly at Altaïr, he rolled his left shoulder slowly.

“Come then, Altaïr, if you think you can,” he said condescendingly. If Altaïr had just one fault it would have been his pride; Malik’s was his temper. They played off each other when given the chance, Malik letting his temper get the better of him and attacking Altaïr’s pride because of it.

Face heating up slightly at the Dai’s words, Altaïr’s smirk quickly faded, and he growled lowly, fingers tightening around the pommel of his knife. He almost snarled at the other man, biting back a sharp retort about their previous sparring matches; they hadn’t fought for years and the last time Altaïr had measured his blade against Malik had been before the disaster that had cost the man his arm.

He watched Malik raise his blade awkwardly, his eyes narrowing as he realized how off the stance was. Forgetting for the moment the grace and skill he had seen displayed when he’d first entered the training ground, Altaïr twirled his knife in his hand again and barked a short, curt laugh. “I think I will make mince meat of you, Dai. This hardly seems a fair challenge.”

Shuffling one foot backwards, he juggled the knife from one hand to the other, his eyes following the sharp line of Malik’s sword and running over the taut flesh of his arm and shoulder, then further down over his naked chest. Grinning now at the Dai, he made no attempt to conceal his gaze, and licked his lips. “And so how about we make this little fight more interesting? A bet of sorts,” he said voice low and husky.

The Dai chuckled darkly at Altaïr’s words. “Mince meat of me Altaïr? You can barely measure your blade against a guard without coming away bloodied. It’s a wonder the novices have trouble with you. No wonder de Sable could simply tossed you away like a rag doll,” he scoffed keeping his tone condescending. Like he was speaking to a five year old, a very, very dense five year old.

“A bet?” Malik asked with a sneer. “Very well. What happens if you win, novice?” Again that condescending tone as his dark eyes watched Altaïr’s blade closely. The heated look Altaïr shot him sent a pleasant thrill through his body.

He adjusted his stance to a slightly different, but still sloppy in appearance, one. “It’s hardly fair if you keep your armour on, Altaïr,” he added, glancing to Altaïr’s robes then back up into the other man’s eyes, his expression mocking.

Altaïr’s face darkened as Malik mentioned the Frenchman and he narrowed his eyes slightly at the older man. The edge of contempt in the Dai’s voice boiled his blood and he struggled to keep his composure as the man continued.

Breathing slightly quickened, he juggled the knife slightly again, watching Malik’s eyes following the movement. “When I win, Dai,” he hissed, stressing the first word, ”I will wait until the day dawns tomorrow, until the peasants start selling their wares in the street. And I will drag you up to the roof of the Temple overlooking the marketplace, bend you over near its edge and take you on your hands and knees.”

As he spoke he walked around Malik slightly, positioning himself further to his left, nearer the obvious hole in the Dai’s rather graceless defense. Making no effort now to conceal his heated gaze, he licked his scarred lips lightly. When he met Malik’s eyes and the man requested he remove his armour, Altaïr sneered, flinging his knife into the soft, sandy soil at his feet, where it stuck firmly. Unbuckling his belts, then his leather holster and finally his bracer, Altaïr flicked each item out of the ring, where they piled up haphazardly. He removed the sash, then pulled the hood and thick cotton robes over his head.

When he was stripped to the waist, he leaned down and retrieved his knife before turning back to Malik with a smirk. “And if, by some chance, you should win, Dai?”

“My hands, Altaïr?” Malik drawled, casting a look at his missing arm, the contempt in his voice thickening as he reigned in his temper to keep from lashing out at the man right there. Now he looked bored and a little disgusted. “Poor choice of words, novice.”

His nostrils flared at the rest of the rest of Altaïr’s plan. It was really an exciting thought. But he would not let Altaïr win; he had plans for Altaïr himself. Lazily he rolled both of his shoulders and popped his neck. His dark eyes traveled over Altaïr’s torso appraisingly like a man looking over a fine horse.

“When I win, Altaïr,” Malik just about purred the certainty and contempt still in his voice. “I want to see you spread out on your desk in Masyaf, fucking yourself with your own fingers until you’re begging me to take you.” He growled the last few words. “Then, maybe I will.”

Altaïr grimaced as he realized his previous slip of the tongue and he tensed slightly at the rising venom in the Dai’s tone. He huffed as Malik’s eyes roamed over him, feeling a strange and unexpected surge of apprehension course through him unpleasantly. The older man’s stance relaxed somewhat as he looked him up and down, and Altaïr bit his tongue to contain an angry curse.

But as the Dai continued, his cheeks flushed slightly and he snarled in response, the knife held tightly in his hand trembling somewhat. The thought of exposing himself lewdly like a common whore rankled more than he would care to admit. And yet, especially now that Malik seemed eager for a fight, he could not back down. “Never going to happen, Dai,” he barked. “You will lose, and I will enjoy seeing you bite your lip to keep the peasants from hearing your moans.”

He raised his knife again, staring down its length and smirking at Malik. “We have ourselves a bet, then. First man down yields and concedes defeat,” he added, feeling the apprehension turn to a more expected twinge of anticipation, and a rising tide of excitement. He could have called for first blood, but this added twist gave him yet more advantage over the Dai; no matter how fast the man could still be, he was confident there was no way Malik could force him to the ground.

Slightly breathless with anticipation, shoulders, back and legs tensed and ready to lash out, he stared Malik down. “Are we agreed, then?”

Malik corrected his failing stance and rolled his weight to the balls of his feet. He watched Altaïr’s cheeks colour as he described what he wanted; his monumental pride would make the eventual loss that much better. He watched Altaïr’s eyes, knowing that the eyes would tell him when the other man would move where the hands and feet would not.

At Altaïr’s barking comment he chuckled lowly. “Oh, I think I will have the pleasure of listening to you struggle not to beg so loudly as the novices will hear you, Altaïr,” he commented back knowing the verbal sparring would end like the physical sparring. “Maybe when I take you it’ll be against your window for all who chance to look up to see.”

He saw what Altaïr was about the minute he stated his terms. He thought Malik was still unbalanced. The fool. Malik couldn’t keep the wicked smirk from his face. “Very well,” he agreed, still smirking. Let Altaïr think that. “We are agreed, Altaïr,” he agreed, unfazed by Altaïr’s attempt to stare him down. The man’s exotic golden gaze often unnerved opponents for him; Malik had always thought it looked something like the predatory look a hunting eagle would have. He felt his blood surge at that look, and kept his anticipation to himself.

Snarling as Malik further sought to demean him, Altaïr shuffled a foot back slightly and fought not to launch himself at the man. The Dai had corrected his defense, raising his sword further up and moving his weight. He gritted his teeth and fought rising anger and humiliation, trying to steady his erratic breathing.

Scowling, struggling to find the centre of calm he tapped into when he fought, Altaïr waited until Malik finally agreed to their terms. He hardly gave the older man any time to breathe; as soon as the Dai finished speaking, he crossed the distance between them in three quick strides, feinting a strike at Malik’s unprotected shoulder before twisting on the balls of his feet to slice diagonally across the Dai’s chest.

Malik’s fighting style was adaptive and entirely unorthodox. He blocked Altaïr’s slash to his chest by simply twisting out of the way, relying on his speed to keep him out of the way. He felt the air of the blade pass across his chest. It looked like a fluke but Malik was sure it wasn’t; it felt like rusty instinct kicking in.

Malik feinted towards the shoulder of the hand Altaïr was holding the dagger in only to twist his blade and stab towards the thigh of the opposite leg. He was expecting the extension from Altaïr’s slash would delay his ability to block.

Altaïr blinked and cursed under his breath as the Dai twisted out of the way of his strike; the movement had been unexpected and strangely graceful, and he struggled back slightly as Malik’s blade rose towards his shoulder. Stepping back with his left foot, he barely had time to start raising his knife in defense—the thrice-damned, sharp-tongued bastard was fast, faster than Altaïr remembered—before the Dai suddenly twisted, sending his blade singing downwards towards Altaïr’s thigh.

He drove his own blade down and to his side with a hiss, knocking the Dai’s blade slightly. Its tip still nicked across the flesh of his leg and he cursed again, feeling a sharp twinge of hot pain as blood seeped through his breeches. With Malik’s blade down past his hip, he snarled and pushed forward, twisting his knife in his hand and striking hard with the pommel towards the Dai’s throat.

Malik twisted away from the strike with the pommel, letting it strike him in his useless shoulder. It hurt and would leave a livid bruise he was sure, but better a bruise to his shoulder than that strike to his neck. He almost expected Altaïr to panic about hitting the crippled arm; the man avoided touching it as if it would crumble to dust if he did.

Snarling, he jerked his blade up and lashed out for Altaïr’s torso and in an instant changed direction and sliced towards his ribs instead. Some part of his mind swore and reminded him just who would be doctoring each wound, and having to pin Altaïr in place so that they could be stitched.

Altaïr’s breath left him in a strangled, surprised gasp as Malik twisted under his strike, the rounded tip of his dagger’s pommel thudding into the Dai’s shoulder with a sickening, pounding crack. He recoiled slightly, his grip on the knife loosening in surprise; he had not expected the man to take the brunt of his strike in the shoulder, and when Malik’s blade danced towards him again, Altaïr struggled to flip the knife in his hand in time to block the strike.

He stepped back awkwardly, angling his knife upwards only to see the Dai’s blade twitch again and slice down towards his ribs. Cursing, loudly this time as he realized he could not counter in time, he shuffled back to evade instead, twisting his body as far out of the way as he could. The tip of Malik’s blade still traced a thin, red line across his ribs and Altaïr inwardly cursed his decision to choose a shorter weapon; in his haste to bring the Dai to his knees, he had forgotten how unwise it was to step into the man’s reach.

Panting slightly, he stepped back further, snarling at the Dai and raising his guard again; he would not get bitten twice, and waited for the next strike, angling his dagger to follow Malik’s movements.

Malik let the guise of a sloppy stance go; Altaïr was on guard now so there was no reason to play him. He saw the realization dawn on the other man’s face, and smirked at that understanding expression. He decided to goad Altaïr more; a sharp dig of verbal spurs as it were.

“Would you like to get your sword, Altaïr? Or maybe you need a breather; you seem to be having trouble,” he taunted, forcing his own slightly laboured breathing into steady deep breaths rather than pants.

He danced the tip of his sword through the air without making any offensive moves towards Altaïr. The wicked tip of the blade moved in an almost hypnotic pattern of short stabs and whorls, quite like a wavering cobra dancing back and forth before striking.

“You’re terribly out of shape, Altaïr,” Malik continued, still taunting. “No wonder you have such trouble with the guards these days. Maybe I should assign a novice to make sure you don’t get yourself hurt.”

Altaïr saw the change in Malik’s stance and sneered, cursing his own stupidity. He kept his distance, circling around the Dai slowly, watching his face carefully for any sign of an attack. The taunting made his blood boil, and he fought, again, his own rising anger, trying to ignore the tip of the man’s sword as it danced in the air between them.

He sneered, biting back a growl as Malik continued. “I have lost count of how many guards I’ve slaughtered, Dai,” he forced through gritted teeth, adjusting his grip on the pommel of his knife. Pride gnawed at him again, and he heard himself continue onwards.

“And this weapon suits me just fine,” he muttered angrily. He cast a sidelong glance at the rest of his discarded weapons, then gave an angry sigh. When he turned back to Malik, the contempt in the man’s eyes finally shattered his thin patience, and he launched himself at the Dai, throwing a wild strike against his waving weapon, trying to force the blade aside to duck under his guard.

A vindictive surge of pleasure at Altaïr’s sneer of understanding that he’d been played surged into Malik’s gut. He kept his blade dancing about in that same pattern, turning as Altaïr circled him, letting his temper boil up and fog his judgment.

Malik laughed as Altaïr snarled a response at him, it was mocking and far from filled with humour. “Any number above five is beyond your ability to count without the aid of your fingers,” he sneered as Altaïr looked at his pile of weapons. The Dai shifted his weight ready to leap out of the way.

He dodged to the side of the wild strike, again choosing to avoid the hit rather than block it. Twisting to the left, he let Altaïr’s momentum carry him past and aimed a smack with the flat of his blade toward the other man’s ass a bit gleefully.

Craning his neck to try and keep the Dai in his sight as his strike forced him past the man, Altaïr saw Malik’s blade swiftly shift and slice sideways towards him. He snarled, the sound of his blood rushing into his ears, as he realized the Dai was toying with him. Memories of previous encounters, sparring sessions that often ended with him laying on his back in the sand and Malik sneering down at him, assaulted him suddenly. He would not, could not, submit.

Casting a sidelong glance at the Dai’s face and seeing the same familiar contempt there, he narrowed his eyes and failed to bite back a low growl. Twisting awkwardly, he brought his knife sideways to block the light swipe, pushing the flat of Malik’s blade aside viciously. But his momentum had been carrying him forward, and the awkward movement threw his balance off completely. One of his knees buckled, and he slapped his free hand down onto the sand to steady himself, landing in an awkward crouch.

He raised his eyes to Malik, keeping his knife raised in front of his face. Panting briefly, he couldn’t force back a slightly startled hiss.

Malik twisted quickly and hissed as he felt the muscles in his left thigh strain at the sudden movement. He ignored the pain and pointed his sword at Altaïr with a smirk. He’d been surprised that Altaïr had blocked the smack but it had turned out well.

“Yield, unless you want me to slice you to ribbons,” he demanded, glaring down at Altaïr. He had the upper hand here. It would take a lot of work for Altaïr to get back completely to his feet.

He really didn’t want to injure Altaïr seriously; but he wouldn’t hesitate to cut him. However, it was an unspoken rule that they didn’t go for killing strikes. Had they sparred sooner after Solomon’s temple….he may have, but now he wouldn’t.

He kept glaring down at Altaïr his sword unwavering in front of the other man’s dagger. He licked his lips and panted softly, waiting for Altaïr to reply.

Altaïr snarled up at the older man, eyes dark and angry. He debated for a while simply throwing himself upwards and risking Malik’s sword to land a swift strike at the Dai. But while on the battlefield he could risk all for the chance to sink his blade in his target, here he would have to control whatever strike he could land in order to avoid serious injury.

With no safe way to gain the upper hand again, Altaïr muttered an angry, lewd curse at the realization that he had lost; not on his back in the sands of Masyaf, but on his knees in Jerusalem. Humiliation coloured his cheeks slightly and he forced his trembling arm down, lowering his guard. He kept his eyes pinned to Malik’s for a few seconds longer; lips twisted in a snarl, then threw his dagger into the sand, where it stuck.

Forcing the words out proved a more difficult challenge. He huffed, then cast his gaze downwards and snarled angrily. “I… yield, Dai,” he hissed.

Malik sighed and let his sword point drop. “Glad to finally hear some reason from you, Altaïr,” he murmured, taking a few steps back to allow Altaïr to stand up. He turned his gaze to his blade, inspecting it closely, then to the cut it’d given Altaïr.

With a huff he turned and stalked towards his gear; it took a moment for him to get his blade wiped clean and sheathed again. He picked up the roll of thick bandages he had brought to change out the protective ones on his severed arm with. “Let me see your side,” he grumbled approaching Altaïr again.

He doubted he’d need to stitch either wound but he was going to check first.

Altaïr blinked in confusion as the contempt in the Dai’s eyes disappeared, then sighed heavily as the man returned with bandages. Realization finally dawned that he’d been played for a fool, taunted into attacking; Malik knew his every weakness, it seemed, and had used most of them against him tonight.

He got to his feet unsteadily, scowling slightly as the Dai reached him with the bandages in his hand; his earlier comments about taking Malik over the marketplace suddenly surfaced in his mind again, and he cast his head to the side, avoiding Malik’s eyes. Staring at the scuffed sand at his feet, he closed his eyes and groaned; unbelievably, he had lost and could only silently pray that Malik wouldn’t hold him to his words or would forget about the damnable bet entirely.

Altaïr looked down at his ribs, fingering the thin red welt with a hiss, then back up towards the Dai to shake his head slightly. “It… is fine, Malik. Barely a scratch.”

Malik scoffed, and batted Altaïr’s hand away. “Let me see it, you novice,” he growled, leaning close to look at the welt. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he expected, he was torn between being relieved and annoyed. Relieved that Altaïr wasn’t truly hurt, and annoyed that he’d missed his mark.

He glanced up at Altaïr’s face and watched the man’s emotions play across it. He smirked slightly and looked down at the cut on Altaïr’s leg. Kneeling in front of the injured limb he quickly wrapped the bandage around it.

He was tempted…so tempted to drag Altaïr back to the bureau and see if could still play other parts of Altaïr’s weaknesses that the sparring match had not touched. But…no. He’d won and he wanted to claim his winnings and not forfeit them for something else.

A relieved sigh passed Altaïr’s scarred lips as Malik dismissed the cut on his side, then bent to swiftly wrap his thigh. It burned furiously as the Dai bandaged it, and he forced his leg to remain steady and unflinching under the man’s hand, desperately trying to avoid any further humiliation.

A slight, nervous flutter flipped through his belly as Malik’s eyes fell on him, his face pensive, and Altaïr struggled to find words. There was still a chance that the Dai had forgotten about their earlier bet. “So, you’ve won,” he hissed into the silence as Malik tied the bandage around his thigh.

“You have… put me back in my place and I will not dismiss your blade again. Are you happy, now?”

Malik chuckled and stood up once he was done bandaging Altaïr’s leg. He smirked and stepped closer to Altaïr. “Yes I won,” he agreed. “Both our little match and our bet, so yes, I am quite pleased.”

“Did you think I would forget?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. “And after you were so…graphic about what you would do when you won.” Not that he hadn’t been just as graphic with his demands, he fully intended on collecting on them.

He figured Altaïr was hoping he’d let him off on the bet, and that would make the whole thing more enjoyable. He would, he decided, not draw it out as long as he had planned to at first; a small amount of mercy.

Casting Altaïr one last glance, Malik moved to his gear and began to redress. His shoulder ached dully where Altaïr had hit him; he paused to look at the bruise. It stood out lividly against his dark skin, a near perfect imprint of the pommel.

Smirking slightly, he looked over at Altaïr as he worked his belts on. “You should head back to Masyaf and get things ready,” he said smugly. “Maybe send some of the novices off so they won’t hear you.”

He didn’t bother to wait for Altaïr to get dressed before he headed out of the training ring. Maybe he wouldn’t bother relocating after this.


	2. Part Two

It took three days for Altaïr to ride back to the keep, and he had plenty of time and opportunity to reflect on his own stupidity. He had thought at first to delay; it was an absurd idea to travel back to Masyaf simply because of a bet if he was required in Jerusalem. As it turned out he spent the better part of a day roaming the rich district in an effort to distract himself; there were absolutely no contracts to undertake and the younger assassins milled aimlessly in the city.

He had been meaning to return to Masyaf soon, to look over the books and examine the reports of recent political events. It was maddening to think he had no excuse to delay, so he left hurriedly, pointedly ignoring the bureau on his way out.

When he finally reached the keep he spent an excruciatingly long week waiting for news of Malik’s arrival in the city, studiously busying himself with some of his advisors and arranging plans for new targets within the Kingdom. Part of him still rankled heavily at having lost and he sat now at the large wooden desk of grandmaster, feeling like a fool and scribbling furiously in his cramped handwriting, fighting to concentrate on the details of what he was writing.

Malik spent the time Altaïr used delaying to get things settled in Jerusalem. He made sure the younger assassin had no chance to delay his leaving; he spent several days getting one of the few other full assassins in his city set up to work the bureau while he was gone. The man in question had broken his ankle feeing form guards so he would have been out of commission already.

He knew Altaïr was headed out even as the man hurried out of the city. He had more eyes around than Altaïr knew. He’d taken pains to cultivate the scum of the city as informants; they where expendable where his novices were not.

He delayed where Altaïr had not; he was going to let Altaïr stew for a while. He waited a week before heading to the keep. He took his time when he arrived, stopping to speak with several old friends on his way up to Altaïr’s study. Let him be informed that Malik was in town first.

After he’d lost his place in his writings for the third time that night, a polite cough interrupted his angry muttered cursing and Altaïr raised his head sharply to glare at the intruder. A young novice stood at the very edge of the doorway, trembling slightly. Huffing, he dropped his pen and stared at the teen. “Yes?”

The boy bowed stiffly, speaking at the wooden floor and averting his eyes. “Master, you asked to be told if brother Al-Sayf should return. He has been seen in the village and is on his way to see y—“

“Get out,” Altaïr interrupted with a growl, getting to his feet. The teen gratefully fled, and Altaïr gritted his teeth and stalked to the door, closing it furiously, its slam echoing around the corridor outside. He steeled himself, walking back to his desk; there was no way he would let the Dai know how thoroughly rankled he had been by his defeat.

The thought of their idiotic bet rose into his mind again, and he vowed not to let Malik gain the upper hand again; he felt certain it shouldn’t be too hard to keep the man distracted enough.

It was at least an hour before Malik knocked on Altaïr’s door. He’d been goaded into a game of chess by the Rafiq he’d replaced. He waited a moment before simply walking in rather than wait for Altaïr to answer.

The Dai smirked and looked around the study, searching for the grandmaster. He wondered just how ruffled Altaïr was about losing. He remembered when they were young the younger man would sulk and hide until he gathered the steam to demand a rematch.

By the time the knock sounded on the door of the study, Altaïr had abandoned his vigil at his desk, too distracted to get any of the tedious work done, preferring instead to sit in a sliver of light beneath the arched window, one leg cocked and resting his head against the cool stone. When the Dai finally appeared, he saw the man glance at the desk before sweeping his gaze across the room, and entertained for a moment the idea of simply vaulting over the windowsill and leaving Malik and his damned bet to seethe.

Sneering at the idea, he forced his head up slightly and cleared his throat noisily. “Welcome back, Dai,” he said, his tone coloured somewhat with impatience. “You certainly took your time in getting here.”

“I am surprised you didn’t run off,” Malik countered, his dark eyes fixing on Altaïr and the window. He blinked at the attractive picture Altaïr made, sitting on the windowsill, the sliver of light warming his tan skin, sable hair, and gold eyes, leg cocked. It sent another thrill of excitement down his spine.

The Dai pushed the door behind him closed, paused and threw the bolt home, locking it. His taste for showmanship was not enough that he wanted anyone watching. “I had things to get settled in Jerusalem, Altaïr,” he added, smirking.

The sound of the bolt sliding shut raised a nervous flutter in Altaïr’s belly, and he bared his teeth slightly in instinctual response, staring up as the Dai stood still in the relative shadows of the study. Fighting the urge to flee, gritting his teeth and staying stubbornly seated, he bit back a sharp retort and tried to force himself to relax.

“Things to settle?” Altaïr asked, keeping his voice curt. “You have plenty of novices and helpers to keep the bureau running for a few days, Malik.”

He was being childish and more than slightly improper, he knew; he should have stood and welcomed the Dai in properly, not sulked at the window like some petulant child. But if Malik wanted to play this game, he would surely not give the man the satisfaction of snapping to his feet like a trained dog.

Malik glowered at the younger assassin. He was sulking like a child. He had the strangest urge to drag him off the windowsill and spank him until he wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. He had been trying to remain civil, to not turn this into a verbal sparring match. He felt some level of guilt for speaking to Altaïr like he had in the training ring; he wanted to do this now like they were both reasonable adults.

“Yes, endless hoards of baby assassins that panic if they have a paper cut, that couldn’t tell a templar from a turk. Helpers that would rather drink date wine and smoke hashish all day rather than work. If I left them without someone in charge I’d come back to my bureau burnt down and find most of them in the local whore houses,” he snarled whippishly.

“Now either stop behaving like a petulant child or simply say you don’t want to do this.” There, he’d given Altaïr the out he so clearly wanted. He hated to have wasted his time but he wasn’t about to force anything on the other man.

Snarling, Altaïr got to his feet in one smooth motion then stalked over to the Dai, fisting a hand loosely in his dark robes. He leaned forwards slightly, his fingers tightening almost of their own accord.

He fought for words for a few seconds, biting back a prideful sneer. “No… No,” he repeated, forcing his hand to unclench around the cloth of Malik’s robes. “You bested me, Dai, and it is a victory regardless of the fact that I acted like a fool.” He took a deep, calming breath, then released the older man entirely, stepping back a few steps until his thighs bumped against the dark wood of the desk he still couldn’t bring himself to think as his.

Curling his fingers against the edge of the desk, Altaïr stared at the Dai challengingly, trying to control the rising heat that threatened to overwhelm his common sense as he continued. “Whatever reward you may have wanted is… yours to claim,” he gritted out, avoiding Malik’s gaze with a muttered curse.

Malik didn’t move as Altaïr stalked up to him snarling; he’d seen Altaïr in his worst moods and knew flinching would only cause trouble. He regarded the hand clutching his robes mildly, waiting for a flare of temper from the younger man. He looked startled at Altaïr’s words, and blinked, his expression softening slightly.

Altaïr’s words made him smile slightly; trust the man to be too stubborn and prideful to back out. He had hoped Altaïr would keep his word, but he’d been prepared to accept it if Altaïr backed out. He’d never let him forget it but he wouldn’t have done anything to force him.

“So prideful…,” he murmured, wandering closer to stand in front him. “And I goaded you into acting a fool, Altaïr,” he murmured, reaching up to cup Altaïr’s cheek, leaning close to kiss him demandingly.

Parting his lips slightly with a defeated sigh, Altaïr fisted his hand in the Dai’s robes again, this time gently, tugging him closer. He reached his other hand up to wrap his fingers around Malik’s wrist, pressing against the man and nibbling at his lip. The realization that he had missed the Dai during their short parting hit him in the gut quite suddenly and he hissed against Malik’s lips before breaking the kiss and craning his neck to lap at the dark skin of the man’s throat.

Altaïr pulled at Malik’s robes again until the Dai was pressed flush against him, and he leaned back against the desk slightly to shoot the older man a sheepish glare. “I know you did, and I was a fool to take the bait,” he said, a smirk dancing at his scarred lips. Teasing Malik’s robes apart slightly, he continued, a hint of challenge dancing in his eyes. “I shall not repeat the mistake twice; perhaps next time the outcome will be different.”

Malik chuckled quietly. “I think that was the last time we’ll spar for a good long time, Altaïr,” he murmured, tilting his head up to give Altaïr better access to his neck. “I think we’re both far too stubborn and prideful to spar like that anymore.” He smirked back at Altaïr with rare good humour in his eyes.

“Besides what good will it do you to best a poor cripple like me?” he teased, nipping at Altaïr’s lower lip.

He snaked his arm down to toy with Altaïr’s belts and hooked his fingers in them while pressing flush against him. “And I think we’re both starting to get out of shape.” He wasn’t lying; the sparring match had left him with some very unpleasant aches.

Altaïr chuckled slightly as the tension bled from the room, feeling Malik relax against him. He quirked his head and pulled at the Dai’s robes further, ghosting his fingertips along the sharp jut of Malik’s collarbone. “I can easily live with suffering no more humiliating defeats, Dai,” he countered, staring at the other man’s tan flesh under his fingers.

Leaning back slightly, he looked up at the Dai with a smirk. “But I hardly think either of us is out of shape; the novices still scamper nervously at the sight of us.” The slight smile tugging at his lips wouldn’t leave his face, and he reached out a hand to twine his fingers in Malik’s short-cropped hair as the Dai’s hand snaked down to grasp the edge of his belts. Their fight, even if it had been in jest, had shaken him, and to have Malik pressed against him and not throwing barbs his way was pure, unbridled bliss.

He twitched upwards slightly at the Dai’s touch against his waist, failing to bite back the deep, throaty groan that was worming its way up his throat.

“Well no one knows but us as of right now,” Malik murmured, chuckling lowly, and leaned forward to nibble at Altaïr’s ear. “As for the novices, I think they’ve heard enough stories about us to scare them for life,” he added with a low chuckle.

The Dai closed his eyes and savoured the younger man’s closeness. He made a note to be less prickly towards him in the future if it got him a relaxed Altaïr although he doubted if he could rein his monstrous temper in all the time; it would be impossible and probably unhealthy to do so.

Groaning slightly as Altaïr’s hips twitched upwards against his, he rocked his hips back against Altaïr. “I like hearing you make sounds like that…” he growled lowly into Altaïr’s ear.

Altaïr bared his throat slightly as Malik leaned further into him to lap at his skin, fighting a shiver as the man’s teeth worried at his earlobe. A slight groan passed the Dai’s lips and Altaïr’s hand tightened into the man’s hair as he all but growled into his ear.

His hips twitched almost without his consent as the growl left Malik’s throat and the Dai ground against him; he was already painfully hard, had been so since the moment he’d gotten up snarling to clutch his hands into Malik’s robes. A slight hiss passed his lips as Malik’s words finally registered and he dragged his hands along the Dai’s sides to grip firmly at the man’s hips and pull him forward.

A fleeting image of what Malik intended for this night flitted across his mind, but the increased pressure on his still-clothed length pushed it back; bucking upwards against hardness and heat, Altaïr curled his fingers into the Dai’s hips with a throaty moan, pressing himself hard against the older man.

Malik groaned as Altaïr pulled him forward and he felt Altaïr’s member pressed against him. His hand slid down from Altaïr’s belts to his hip and he nibbled at Altaïr’s neck, grinding against him slowly. Arguing with Altaïr, or at least snapping at the other man, always got his blood going.

He growled lowly as Altaïr’s hand tightened in his hair. His dark hair was getting longer than he normally kept it; it almost seemed shaggy, the fringe just barely touching his brow. He’d been meaning to have it trimmed but he almost liked it better this way.

As much as he would have liked to just rut against Altaïr like they were, the mental image of Altaïr spread out and wanting him…was far more attractive. Biting Altaïr’s collar bone sharply, Malik pulled back. “…Clothes… they need to come off…” he growled lowly.

Stifling another sharp hiss and straining against the Dai’s hips as teeth dug into his flesh, Altaïr bucked upwards into disappearing heat, casting a slightly accusing glare at Malik as the man stepped back. He uncurled his fingers from the Dai’s hips, swiftly drawing his palms up along Malik’s chest to push his dark robes off his shoulders. He made quick work of the man’s belts, then moved to unbuckle the straps of his own bracer, removing it with practiced ease.

Then he growled and reached for the front of Malik’s lighter robes, tugging him forwards urgently to crush his lips against his. He wrestled his hand down between them and fought with his armour slightly before letting both belt and sword clatter to the floor at his feet. Loathe to pull away from the Dai, he nipped at the man’s lip sharply before leaning back with a sigh to slip his robes over his head. Letting them fall from his fingers to join the heap of weapons and leather at his feet, he reached out and pushed Malik’s robes upwards to tuck his fingers into the hem of his breeches, pulling with a slight hopeful sound.

Growling softly, Malik stepped back and pulled off his own robes, dropping them to the ground with his darker robes. Once that was removed, he stepped closer and pressed their chests together. Groaning softly, he kissed Altaïr again, letting his tongue trace the younger man’s scar. He reached up to tangle his hand in Altaïr’s hair.

He had to fight the urge to grind roughly against Altaïr as they kissed; if he gave into that they’d never make it to where Malik wanted them to be. He tugged Altaïr’s hair lightly, trailing his lips down Altaïr’s jaw line and nipping down his neck. “Can’t wait to see you on that desk…” he growled again, this time muffled against tan skin.

The Dai’s touches and kisses were utterly devastating, and Altaïr settled himself against the edge of the desk absent-mindedly as Malik worried at the flesh of his neck, throwing his head back slightly. He was practically rutting against the man when Malik’s voice sounded in the relative silence of his study, and he felt himself stiffen suddenly, shoulders tensing painfully. His mind rebelled against the idea—humiliation, crushing and complete, writhing on his own fingers for another’s entertainment—and so he was completely appalled when a small, needy whine wormed its way past his scarred lips.

Turning his face aside sharply, Altaïr bucked against the Dai’s hips, trying to control his ragged breathing and the raging heat that was now pooling at the base of his spine. Struggling to regain some measure of control over himself, he fought to settle his wildly beating heart, slinking his hand down between them to try to slip his fingers under the hem of Malik’s breeches.

“Malik…” he essayed, his voice a low, warning growl. He stared pointedly down at the Dai’s clothed but very obvious erection, tongue darting out to lick at his scarred lips. “… There are… other things I could do.”

Malik groaned lowly at the needy sound that worked its way out of Altaïr’s mouth.; he loved to hear those sounds coming from the younger assassin. He ground against Altaïr’s hips roughly and pulled back with great difficultly.

Malik chuckled low in his throat, and leered at Altaïr. “I know there are other things you can do, but I want this,” he murmured, firmly griping Altaïr’s wrist and pulling it away from his breeches, as much as he would have loved to see just what Altaïr would do instead.

“I know you would not allow me to back out, had you won,” he added, chuckling lowly. “Not that I would not have tried to be as distracting as I could be.”

Biting back a harsh groan as the Dai forced his hand away, Altaïr shuffled back against the desk, his wrist caught in Malik’s grip. His eyes went to the large, undecorated window, where silvery light streamed in, bathing the contours of the study in a strange, white light. Malik’s earlier words about taking him in full view of the battlements below surfaced in his mind again, and he fought to tear his gaze away from the window, which now seemed to be taunting him.

The wooden desk suddenly seemed a much safer place to be and he returned his eyes to the Dai’s fingers around his wrist; Malik’s mind seemed made up to claim his damnable prize, but he could still delay it. And he would.

Pushing himself away from the edge of the desk, Altaïr dropped to his knees in front of the older man, his free hand reaching up in a swift movement to grab the hem of Malik’s breeches again and pull them down sharply. Unwilling to give the other time or opportunity to stop him, he leaned forward and nipped gently at the soft flesh of the Dai’s hip, looking up at him before laving his tongue over the sharp edges of hipbone towards the hard length of flesh that now lay hotly against his cheek.

Malik’s gaze followed Altaïr’s to the window; he still wasn’t sure things would last long enough for him to take Altaïr against it. He wanted to but he wasn’t sure either of them would last that long. Someday he vowed it would happen; maybe not today, but someday soon.

Biting back his own slightly wanton moan, Malik transferred his grip to Altaïr’s hair. Curling his fingers in Altaïr’s hair he tried pulling his head back as he stepped back. With a little growl he scowled down at Altaïr.

“You’re trying to delay things, Altaïr,” he growled, voice thick with want. Oh, the temptation of letting Altaïr have his way. “As much as I love your mouth being useful, that was not the bet.”

As Malik stepped back, fingers tightening in his short hair, something in Altaïr finally, blissfully snapped; he could not have stopped the strangled, breathless moan that snaked its way out of his throat if his life had depended on it. Kneeling at the Dai’s feet, feeling strangely powerless, he leaned his head to the side slightly, groaning at the slight twinge of pain in his scalp.

Breathing shallow and fast, Altaïr rose to his feet slowly, casting a longing look at Malik’s length before leaning back against the desk again. He nodded at the floor, before looking up and meeting the Dai’s eyes, shooting him a darkly smouldering glare, a light flush ghosting over his cheeks.

“It… was not,” he forced out, voice throaty and strange. “You… do not know what you ask of me, Malik.” His hands rose to tug at the hem of his own breeches regardless, slipping them quickly down and over his hips. He toed his boots off, shucking his pants with a slight snarl, and leant back somewhat awkwardly against the desk.

“I am asking you to give up control for a change,” Malik said, his voice thick with want. “Trying to get you to let lose some of your inhibitions.” He wasn’t there to embarrass Altaïr, or hurt him. What happened was not going to go anywhere but between them.

The breathy moan that Altaïr had let out sent a shiver down Malik’s spine and pooled at the base of his erection. He would have loved to cut things short and just bend Altaïr over that desk and fuck him raw, but as stubborn as they both were, giving in now would only cause a fight later on.

The dark glare Altaïr shot him made his engorged flesh twitch reactively. Tightening the grip on Altaïr’s hair he tugged on it.

Leaning back against the dark wood of the desk, feeling the Dai’s hand pull at his hair, Altaïr reached up to grasp Malik’s wrist and lowered the man’s arm. He pulled Malik closer, depositing the older man’s hand on his own extended thigh and leaned further back, settling himself on an elbow and shooting Malik another slight glare. “It has… nothing to do with control,” he lied furiously, reaching up with his left hand to draw two fingers into his mouth, lightly sucking at them.

Feeling exposed and utterly foolish, his breaths coming now in low, uneven gasps, Altaïr drew his slicked hand down along his side, raising his hips off the desk slightly and keeping his gaze on Malik, daring the older man to comment. But as he pressed one finger against his entrance, he could no longer force himself to meet the Dai’s eyes, and he turned his head sharply as he pressed his slicked finger into his body. Another surprised and choked moan wormed its way past his lips, and he struggled not to arch upwards off the desk as he pushed his finger further in.

And then the dam of his resolve broke, quite suddenly; Malik’s gaze searing across his flesh, the crushing shame of his earlier defeat and the pulsing hint of pleasure and pain as he slowly forced another finger into his body finally crushed his damnable pride. Collapsing against the desk with a strangled whine, Altaïr reached down with a slightly trembling hand to wrap fingers around his jutting cock, finally forcing his head back up to chance another stare at the Dai.

Malik’s eyes darkened lustfully as he watched Altaïr struggle with his pride. He licked his lips, finding them suddenly dry, and kneaded the thigh under his hand firmly. He groaned lowly as Altaïr moaned, sucking his lower lip between his teeth and worrying it.

Releasing the abused lip, he groaned lowly. “That’s right, Altaïr,” he growled, his voice harsh with want. “Fuck yourself with your fingers; I want to hear you beg for it. Tell me want you want me to do to you.” His tone was more commanding than demanding.

He pressed his thumb against the half-healed scar on the inside of Altaïr’s thigh and fought the urge to wrap his lips around the head of Altaïr’s member and suck. He wouldn’t touch him any more than he already was until Altaïr begged for it.

Releasing an indignant growl, lip curling up slightly, Altaïr stared at the Dai, shock and shame written plainly across his face. He should not have been surprised; again Malik knew exactly where and how to strike at his core, heated words forcing the angry retort of his pride down. Breathless and broken as he was, hips bucking as he ground down against his own fingers, he knew he could not fight Malik's request for long.

He was arching now, his breath catching with a slight hissed moan with every thrust of his fingers; he wanted more, wanted to pull Malik down to him and impale himself on the man, wanted to force him against the desk himself and take him, furious and fast.

But damn the man and his mind games; Altaïr would not beg. He managed a weak glare before the Dai's fingers brushed against the thin cut at his thigh, choking back a low whine and bucking upwards urgently, pressing his leg against Malik's hand, desperately seeking more of that pulsing throb of pain. He released his painfully hard length in favour of grabbing the edge of the desk, fingers trying to dig furrows into the dark wood. Shaking his head, he fell back against the desk once more, the slow glide of his fingers turning slightly frantic, hips twitching uselessly upwards. "Aaah, Christ, Malik. Damn you… Damn you," he repeated, gritting his teeth.

Another strangled breath, and Altaïr's fingers curled, the sudden flare of white hot pleasure forcing his spine to arch and a lewd moan out of his throat. Frantically, he fixed his gold eyes on the Dai, fighting to slow his ragged breaths. "This is… hnn… not enough," he hissed, his voice strangled. He bit at his lip, bucking upwards again, desperate for more friction. "…Please… God, Malik, please, no more... I need…--" A long, trembling moan was wrenched out of him, and he curled his fingers again, all but howling as he writhed against the desk. "C-Christ, you…. I need you, Dai. Stop this torture and fuck me!"

Malik stared down at Altaïr, watching the play of emotions dance across the younger man’s face. It was almost as attractive to see as the play of Altaïr’s muscles twitching under his skin as he ground himself against his own fingers shamelessly. It was amazing to watch Altaïr’s inhibitions crumble away.

Groaning lowly, Malik fought not to move his hand to his own straining length and stroke it. He wanted to watch Altaïr writhe in front him like that forever. He was torn between wanting to wrench Altaïr’s hand away and pound him until the desk broke, and dragging things out until Altaïr gave up and bent him over.

Pressing against the cut roughly, Malik watched Altaïr thrash under his touch. Stepping forwards and curling his hand around the base of Altaïr’s member, he gave it a firm squeeze, momentarily mourning the fact he didn’t have two hands; if he did, he would have added his own fingers to Altaïr’s and asked if that was enough. He made due with leaning and licking a long stripe up Altaïr’s torso.

“What’s not enough?” he asked in a low purr, his hand slowly pumping the younger man’s member; if he wasn’t careful Altaïr would climax and he would just be getting started. His brown eyes darkened when Altaïr howled and pleaded for him to stop tormenting him and fuck him already. Groaning lowly, the Dai smirked. “Oh, I will fuck you soon enough,” he growled, his eyes flashing with lust.

Bucking upwards violently into the Dai’s hand, Altaïr hissed a strained and barely comprehensible curse, his body bowing sharply against the desk as Malik stroked his fingers slowly around his flesh. He bit at his bottom lip furiously, straining not to pull the man towards him; he could not, however, stop the twitching of his hips or the desperate movements of his own fingers.

Another strangled moan escaped him and Altaïr threw his head back, surprised at the needy sound of his own voice. He felt the rest of his control slip away as Malik’s searing gaze roamed over him, leaving him boneless and panting. His hips snapped upwards, thrusting into the Dai’s hand, and he forced his fingers deeper still, desperate now for release. His moan changed into a small, shameful whine, and he collapsed back onto the dark wood before thrusting roughly again, caught between the heat of Malik’s hand and the slicked slide of his own fingers.

Unable now to even think of straining his thoughts together, much less forming a coherent sentence, he dissolved into breathless panting, voice strange and unrecognizable. Reaching up with his free hand to drag blunt nails along Malik’s back, he was hardly even aware that he was moaning the Dai’s name incessantly with every twitch of his hips.

Malik made a soft mewling sound at the sound of Altaïr’s chanting of his name. Releasing Altaïr’s member, he grabbed Altaïr’s wrist and pulled on it, his intent of removing the fingers from Altaïr clear. Growling softly, the Dai leaned over Altaïr and captured his lips in a demanding kiss.

He didn’t want to end things so quickly but Altaïr seemed so close. Truth be told he was close as well just from watching the younger man come apart; lose the layers of pride and stubbornness. It was a beautiful sight to behold, the faint light playing over his chest and casting shadows across his lighter skin.

Arching against Malik’s touch and kissing the older man heatedly, Altaïr let his fingers slip from his body, shuddering faintly at the loss. He moaned into the kiss, tongue lapping at the Dai’s mouth, and reached for Malik’s hips with trembling arms, trying to pull the older man closer. He felt a hot length of flesh slide against his thigh and dug his fingers into the Dai’s hips, breathlessly nipping at Malik’s lower lip.

A small, needy sound escaped him, and he was too far gone to care; he was unbearably warm, sweat pearling over his skin, an insistent, throbbing pulse of heat curling at the base of his spine. Breaking the kiss and thunking his head back down against the wooden desk’s surface, he glanced up at Malik; with the Dai closer, and no longer a strange unseen presence beyond him, he could finally now notice the man’s quickened breaths and the light flush dancing over the dark skin of his cheeks.

Reaching up with his clean hand to twine his fingers in the Dai’s short hair, he arched upwards, the swollen flesh of his cock brushing against the hard planes of Malik’s stomach. Panting heavily now, it took him several moments before he could trust himself to speak. “God, Malik… Please… Please, I cannot take much more of this,” he managed, voice turning into a breathless growl halfway through.

Sucking lightly at Altaïr’s tongue as they kissed, Malik tolerated Altaïr’s tugs at his hips and allowed himself to be pulled closer. He hissed as his member brushed across Altaïr’s thigh and shivered; he felt almost over warm at this point from all the little sounds and moans Altaïr was making.

Malik released Altaïr’s wrist and gripped his hip with his hand, stepping closer to rest between Altaïr’s legs and groaning lowly as he felt his member brush against Altaïr’s entrance. Keeping a strong hold on Altaïr’s hip, he pressed in.

Tilting his head as Altaïr fisted his hair, he gasped lowly, trembling and fighting the urge to speed up and thrust the rest of the way into him. After a few moments of impatient waiting, he bit his lower lip and sank the rest of the way into Altaïr.

Relief flooded him as Altaïr felt Malik press against him—finally, blissfully close, the warmth of the Dai’s body almost stifling to his already overheated flesh—and he all but bucked eagerly at the light touch of the Dai’s length against his entrance. Panting heavily, he fought to cover the thin needy whine that rose from him with a long string of muttered cursing.

He could not, however, keep silent for very long, and a low, trembling moan was wrenched from his throat as Malik pressed into him. Altaïr arched violently off the desk, grinding down against Malik in an effort to swallow more of the Dai’s flesh. A few seconds of breathless, agonized stillness passed as Malik waited for him to adjust, and he snarled and tightened his fingers in the older man’s hair, writhing underneath him, desperate now for more; more of the Dai’s skin under his fingers, more of his flesh within him, more of that contempt and threatening glare. He was broken, he knew; like a moth drawn to the flame, he kept returning to Malik, to his own guilt and to that withering glance that could undo him as surely as any strike of the man’s sharp blade.

He gazed up at Malik as the older man bit his lip, and the wordless howl that passed his lips as the Dai finally thrust into him could not have sounded any less like his own voice.

Growling under his breath and gripping Altaïr’s hip roughly, Malik started moving. He didn’t waste time with a slow build up, but started at and maintained a rough pace, panting softly as he did. The low needy sounds Altaïr was making going straight to his cock.

Dropping his head to bury it in Altaïr’s neck he alternated growling half coherent filthy talk and nipping at the younger man’s neck, worrying the skin he found there between his teeth. He didn’t know why Altaïr kept coming back to him; he was far from the most affectionate of people even before Solomon’s Temple.

But still Altaïr returned and he tolerated it. Even after wanting him dead for so many months, Malik still found himself feeling hopeful whenever he heard boots on the roof of the bureau. He might have greeted Altaïr with distance and ill temper but he didn’t mind the other man’s company half as much as he claimed to.

Bucking violently again, Altaïr fought to meet every thrust and slam of Malik’s hips against him. The sudden, furious pace was devastating and he soon dissolved into breathless moans, hardly able to believe he had lost control over himself so completely. He forced himself to loosen his fingers from the Dai’s hair just as the man bent down to meet him, teeth sinking into the flesh of his neck.

Altaïr rose and fell in time with Malik’s thrusts, his length caught between their bodies and pressing against the slick heat of the Dai’s stomach as the man rocked against him. Worrying at his lip with his teeth, he clawed the taut flesh of Malik’s back with short nails, bucking against him insistently. The Dai’s muted growls against his skin sparked shivers along his neck and spine, and he bared his throat further, eyes squeezing shut as teeth worried at a quickly developing bruise.

Malik’s rough but measured thrusting pushed him up further onto the wooden desk, and he swallowed thickly, lips curling in a slight snarl. Damn the man and his ridiculous, endless teasing; already he could feel the low, insistent burn and pull of pleasure curling around his spine and pooling in his gut. Growling himself now, he grabbed the Dai’s hair and tugged, struggling to find his voice.

“Aaah, Christ… Christ, Malik.” Bit his lip and tried again. “H-Harder…” This was not enough; he wanted, needed, to see the Dai’s composure destroyed, needed to see him shatter above him.

Hissing as blunt nails were dragged down his back, Malik lapped at the growing bruise he was worrying at. The grandmaster’s loss of control because of him—for him, even—was almost as arousing as having the man writhing under him.

 

He pulled all the way out of the man below him when he heard Altaïr ask for it hard, and thrust back in roughly, adjusting his hips to aim for a shallower angle as he did so. It was getting harder to focus and he thrust into Altaïr furiously to try and force the man to keep up his babble of dirty talk.

Swearing lowly with one last hard bite, he let himself be pulled up so he could look down at Altaïr. He released Altaïr’s hip and dragged his nails over the sensitive flesh there before gripping Altaïr’s member firmly and dragging a blunt nail over its head.

Malik locked eyes with the younger man below him, his pupils blown wide with lust. He struggled to keep himself together, maintain his composure while still roughly thrusting into Altaïr; he was going to see Altaïr shatter completely before losing himself.

Altaïr threw his head back against the desk as the Dai’s tongue laved at the growing bruise on his neck, panting harshly under the older man. He fisted his hand tighter in Malik’s hair, arching slightly under his touch, and was about to breathlessly plead again for more when the sudden, harsh snap of the Dai’s hips drove into him, wrenching a shuddering moan from his throat.

His body locked tight for a moment, as Malik’s length viciously slammed deeper into him, sparking a white hot pulse of pleasure down his spine, leaving him dazed and breathless but still, agonizingly, unbearably hard. An embarrassing mewl passed his lips and he bucked roughly against the Dai, trying to force the man deeper still.

Malik’s fingers wrapping around his cock took him completely by surprise, and he bucked upwards almost by instinct as the Dai’s thumb pressed against its tip, glancing upwards at the older man as another shiver ran through him. Another urgent thrust rocked into him, then another, Malik’s hand tight around his flesh, and Altaïr shuddered violently, twitching up into the Dai’s hand and arching against him.

The strangled moan he uttered sounded frightfully loud even to his own ears ground himself further onto Malik’s length, furiously bucking against him, fingers digging into the Dai’s shoulder.

Malik groaned loudly at the chorus of sounds Altaïr was making under him. The Dai swore heatedly and picked up speed as best he could while still pulling completely out then thrusting all the way back in. His breathing was getting rugged as things continued.

His hand kept pumping Altaïr’s member roughly in time with his thrusts stopping to squeeze the base or rub his calloused thumb against the swollen head. He almost thought it was over when Altaïr’s body locked tight; but the younger man rallied and thrust against him again, and Malik kept on, determined to see Altaïr shatter before him.

Flushed from arousal and his exertions, he bowed his head slightly, his dark eyes traveling over Altaïr’s torso, watching the play of muscles under golden skin as they both moved. “So….fucking….beautiful like this…Altaïr…,” he growled out, hips snapping almost in time with his words. “Fucking...love the…sounds you… make for me…”

He couldn’t stop the litany of babble that started spewing from his lips as he moved; most of which was incoherent dirty talk and the rest was equally incoherent chanting of Altaïr’s name.

It was, ultimately, the Dai’s voice that was his undoing; as he lay breathless and bucking under Malik’s darkly tanned flesh, the broken, strangled tones of his voice as the Dai thrust roughly into him forced a deep shudder through him. Caught between Malik’s forceful thrusting and his hand squeezing at his length, Altaïr’s own voice finally broke as he rode the wave of his climax.

Bucking harshly one last time against the older man, he tensed suddenly, fighting not to dig his fingers into the flesh of Malik’s back as his release hit him powerfully. He tried and failed to bite back the howling moan that coursed through him as he shot his seed into the Dai's hand. "Nnnngh… God… God… Malik!” he managed through gritted teeth, milking himself weakly into the Dai's hand until, finally, spent, exhausted and shamed, his body collapsed back onto the wood of the grandmaster's desk.

He sprawled bonelessly under the Dai, his breaths coming in short, uneven gasps, fighting to steady his wildly racing heart. He could not bring himself to meet Malik's gaze, knew his cheeks were flushed, his eyes now heavily-lidded and unfocused; the humiliation rose in him again as he lay—on his own damned desk—breathless and sated, his thoughts in disarray. He didn't know why he rose and fell to the Dai's every whim; he had just been played like an instrument under Malik's deft fingers and although the thought was even further humiliating, he had the certainty he could not have refused the man anything this night.

Malik gasped as Altaïr tensed under him and climaxed. A few more thrusts and he buried himself deep inside the younger man and came forcefully. He fought to stay standing upright and not collapse over Altaïr, and looked down at the gold-eyed man beneath him; he wasn’t sure how he kept twisting Altaïr to his whims like this but he did enjoy looking at him.

He removed his hand from Altaïr’s member and looked down at it, panting raggedly as he did. He licked his lips and tried to slow his breathing; even limp and sullied as he was, the man was still beautiful. Malik smiled slowly, still panting, and leaned over Altaïr before kissing him softly.

Mindful of how sore Altaïr could have been, he pulled out slowly and carefully. “Ah… Altaïr…” he murmured, gazing down at him, trying to catch his breath.

Altaïr leaned up into the kiss, stifling the rest of his moans as the Dai’s climax sent further shivers through him. He forced himself to meet Malik’s eyes finally, the Dai’s voice subdued and soft, and sighed as the older man gently stepped back, fighting back a slight cringe at the loss of contact. Struggling for words, he searched Malik’s eyes briefly before turning away again, releasing the Dai’s shoulder to drape his arm across his face.

“Well,” he said, voice little more than an embarrassed whisper. He shuddered, tried to rally and will his voice back into something approximating his normal tone. “…. I hope… I hope you’re happy, Dai. Is this what you wanted? To see me… reduced so before you?” Huffing, still breathing raggedly, he averted his eyes again, staring at the fingers of his left hand still loosely wrapped around Malik’s unmarred shoulder.

His fingers clenched around the Dai’s skin, almost of their own accord, and he fought back a sneer; even to his own ears, the words rang empty and false. Huffing slightly, closing his eyes to try and regain some of his dignity, he was almost appalled to realize that he was trying to force Malik closer, fingers tight against the older man’s shoulder, pulling his flesh and heat back down towards him again.

Malik flinched at those words and looked away; it had been wrong for him to force Altaïr to submit and reduce him so. He didn’t move when Altaïr tried to tug him closer and simply looked away. “That….is not what I wanted Altaïr,” he murmured, his voice suddenly thick.

“I am sorry for…” He pulled his arm completely out of Altaïr’s hand and stepped further back. “…Forcing this on you. I will leave you alone, then.” He’d wanted to spend time just being with Altaïr and enjoy a few rare moments of enjoying each other’s company. Now he knew this had been nothing but unpleasant for the other man.

Had he known before he would never have done it. Shivering slightly and fighting the urge to flee, he moved slowly back to his clothing. He was such a fool to think that they both could be together and enjoy each other’s company; there was just too much hurt between them now.

Forcing back a surprised grunt as the Dai moved away, Altaïr frowned and raised himself up slightly, shifting his weight onto his elbows until he could stare as Malik dressed himself hurriedly, eyes now drinking in the sight of disappearing flesh. He scoffed, turned his head away again, and bit at his lip until he could feel a slight twinge of pain.

“Wait… Ahh, fuck, Malik, wait,” he forced out, shuffling off the desk’s counter until his bare feet touched the ground. He took three quick strides towards the Dai, wincing the entire way as his body protested, and swiftly wrapped his hand over Malik’s, trying to still the older man’s movements. Pressing himself flush against Malik’s still bare back, he huffed slightly, fighting for words and digging his fingers into the flesh of the Dai’s wrist.

“I… Damn this all, Malik… I don’t want you to leave.” His pride rankled at the words, but the thought of the Dai leaving now, after all that had just happened, rankled further still. He leaned forward and sighed against Malik’s neck, swallowing thickly before burying his face in the flesh at the crook of the other man’s shoulder. Altaïr fought another shiver and forced himself to continue. “I’m an old fool, Dai. Please, forgive me. Stay.”

Malik tensed as Altaïr called his name and kept his eyes averted, he didn’t want to see the look on Altaïr’s face. His hand shook as Altaïr grasped it, trying to still its movements. He stared down at their hands and sighed softly. Turning, he pressed back against Altaïr with a huff. What fools they were…

“We both are…,” he grumbled softly, pulling his arm free and wrapping it around Altaïr’s waist. It was nice to hear that Altaïr didn’t want him to leave. He nuzzled Altaïr’s hair with a soft sigh. “We’re both tired as well….It’s probably adding to it….”

He shifted a bit closer to the other man. “Perhaps we could go lay down…” He tried to keep the hopefulness out of his voice as he said that; the last thing the novices needed to know was that the fearsome Dai of Jerusalem liked to cuddle.

Altaïr sighed as Malik turned and pulled him closer, the slight flutter of nervousness in his gut blissfully melting away as the Dai reached towards him to pull him closer. He turned and eyed the still open window, then nodded, stepping back and pulling at Malik’s hand lightly, walking towards the light before releasing the other’s hand to settle himself against the windowsill with a strangled hiss.

He reached up for Malik’s hand again, running his thumb over ink-stained fingers with a slight huff and tugging down, inviting the man to sit with him. He could not now think of any words to convey his thoughts; his pride had been shattered by Malik’s actions and his own willingness to obey the man, yet the thought of the Dai leaving now bothered him more than anything he had done so far.

Altaïr shifted against the cold stone of the windowsill, hand still wrapped around Malik’s wrist. “I… Sometimes I wonder why you come to me like this, Dai.”

Malik watched him closely for a moment before joining him on the window seat. He leaned against Altaïr without a word and sighed softly. He hadn’t missed the soft hiss when Altaïr had sat down; it was both gratifying and sickening to know he’d caused that slight limp.

“For the same reason you keep coming back to me, Altaïr,” he murmured, tucking his head under Altaïr’s chin and sighing softly. “We’re both just too stubborn to know better or to know when to stop.” He shifted so he was almost seated in Altaïr’s lap but off it enough that he could claim that he wasn’t.

“Sometimes I miss…just being close like this… Sometimes…” he muttered, flushing slightly.

Altaïr glanced down as Malik settled against him, swiftly wrapping an arm around the Dai’s shoulders and tugging him closer still. He settled back rather uncomfortably against the cold stone at his back and sighed. Malik’s words rattled him to the core, and he scowled slightly at the tone of the Dai’s voice, tightening his arm around the man.

“You…” he started, before leaning slightly down to bury his face in the Dai’s neck. He huffed, feeling his breath pool across Malik’s still heated skin. “You make it difficult to be close, sometimes, Dai.

“And… I remember a time when this wasn’t so.” Huffing slightly and stifling an exhausted yawn, Altaïr mouthed the column of Malik’s neck gently. He forced his voice out again into the tense silence. “When we both were novices… You used to… You were there, more often than not.” Leaning back against the cold stone, Altaïr looked up, at the grandmaster’s desk and its furnishings, now scattered along the floor haphazardly.

“Perhaps… Perhaps you need not return to Jerusalem too soon,” he muttered, feeling a heavy numbness settling into his limbs. He rested his head against the edge of the window and closed his eyes, arm tight around the Dai’s shoulder. “The Brotherhood could use you here and… so would I.”

“When we were novices…we had more time…and were not as damaged, Altaïr,” Malik murmured, resting his head on Altaïr’s shoulder and sighing softly. “I have been trying…to be less prickly…but it’s become a bad habit.”

Refusing to comment about where he used to be, Malik tilted his head back, allowing Altaïr to mouth his neck. He glanced over at the mess they’d made with a slight smirk; it had been fun defiling Altaïr’s desk in such a manner.

He chuckled at the yawn he felt more than he heard. “Come, novice, we can discuss my staying after we’ve slept,” he said, sliding from Altaïr’s lap and tugging his arms slightly. He already knew he would be staying in Masyaf until Altaïr sent him away, but he wasn’t about give that up so quickly.

Stifling another deep yawn, Altaïr got up slowly, rolling an aching shoulder as he got to his feet. He glanced down at the pile of his robes and equipment, lying in disarray near the desk, then at the large wooden doors to his study and finally, longingly, back at the window.

Satiated and sleepy, he turned back to Malik. “And how do you expect we should get back to our quarters, like this?” he asked, a slight smile tugging at his lips. They were both disheveled and flushed, their lips red and swollen; they had not been particularly quiet either, and Altaïr fought a rising blush as he thought of the likelihood of a group of novices hiding silently behind the heavy door to his study.

He walked back to his equipment, bending with a slight hiss to pull on his pants with shaking arms, then slipped his robes back on somewhat carelessly. When he turned back again towards the Dai, he knew a smirk was now plastered across his face. Walking stiffly towards the door, he stifled another deep yawn and draped a hand lazily over the handle. “I do hope you have an extremely imaginative excuse for all this, Dai. I think you may be right; the novices already have enough to discuss about us both without adding to it.”

Malik watched Altaïr get dressed only half listening to his rambling his dark eyes admiring the younger man’s movements. After a moment he moved and got dressed as well refusing to allow Altaïr to get the door open before he was finished. “It’s quite simple, Altaïr,” he murmured, wandering close to Altaïr and smirking back.

He’d felt an interesting thrill in his gut when Altaïr referred to ‘their’ quarters; it was similar to the weightless feeling a leap of faith. With a huff he leaned in close and pressed his lips to Altaïr’s in a soft kiss. “We don’t say anything. They’re novices, we don’t have to explain ourselves to them”

“So,” he reached up and pulled Altaïr’s hood over his head. “We just head that way without a word. If they’re lurking outside the doors,” he pitched his voice a little louder. “I’m sure we can find any number of things for them to do that are nasty and probably demeaning.”

Biting back a slight chuckle, Altaïr pulled his hood further up, glancing sideways at Malik as he slipped the bolt from the door. “You have an evil mind, Dai.” Feeling the muscles of his shoulders protest angrily, he pulled the door open, ignoring for the moment the loud scuffling of feet as the heavy stone rotated and the passage beyond came into sharp relief.

Blessed emptiness met his gaze, although he knew they’d been heard. Sparing the older man a somewhat awkward glance, he made his way through the still unfamiliar corridors, waving a hand angrily at an older assassin who tried to accost him with yet more thrice-damned scrolls. Finally, blessedly, the unmarked and quite unremarkable door of his own rooms came into sharp focus, and he opened the light, unmarked door to gesture Malik inside. “Haven’t… had time to settle in, yet. These are the same rooms…,” he muttered, glancing aside. “… The same lodgings I had when we trained.”

Malik stopped and stared at Altaïr for a long moment, then looked into the room he hadn’t been in since he’d become Dai. Shaking his head, he chuckled lowly. “The grandmaster is still sleeping in novice quarters?” he asked softly and stepped into the room. “It certainly is a way to prove your new found humbleness, Altaïr. The old you would have moved into the master’s suite right away.”

“I should have known you’d be drowning in paper work though,” he murmured looking back at Altaïr and moving further into the rooms. It felt strange being in the rooms again; he remembered them from when they were training, and the brief rage filled-moments he spent tearing through them to get his things before leaving to Jerusalem.

Altaïr could not tear his eyes from the Dai as he moved into his quarters; bare as they were, the sight of Malik walking in seemed to fill the small room again with life, and he forced himself to shrug at the man’s words. “The grandmaster’s rooms… have no windows, Dai,” he admitted, stealing a glance at the large opening in the wall before them.

Closing the door behind him and walking stiffly further into the room, Altaïr pulled his robes back over his head and threw them down before turning and settling himself down onto the small cot with a barely restrained hiss. He stretched against the slightly uncomfortable pallet, glancing up at Malik with a somewhat sheepish smile.

“I can barely make heads or tails of the damned papers, to be honest. Sometimes…” he swallowed thickly, turning his gaze to the window and stretching his arms behind his head. “… Sometimes I think I am not fit for this.”

Malik shed his own robes and joined Altaïr on the cot and pressed close to him. “Fair enough,” he murmured, pleased. “But I would suggest a more comfortable bed than this one. Unless you’re attempting to convince the brotherhood that we should all live like penniless monks.”

He rested his check against Altaïr’s chest. “As for being fit for this…you are more fit than any other…” He flushed slightly. “The paper work will be easily sorted out, I think. Then we’ll get a system set up for you.”

Altaïr glanced down as Malik shuffled closer and rested his head against his chest, blinking slightly in honest surprise; despite everything they had gone through, the Dai could just as easily disarm him with a sharp retort or a soft sigh. He shifted, brought a hand down and tangled his fingers lightly in Malik’s short, dark hair.

“Are you volunteering to help then, Dai?” he asked, leaning his head back against the itchy, woolen blankets of the cot. “Because if you are, then I must warn you; the amount of utter, mind-numbing nonsensical reports the informants generate is…” he yawned, deeply, sneering at his own interruption before further stretching back against the bedding. “… Extremely aggravating.”

He curled his fingers against the back of Malik’s neck, briefly, exhaustion and sleep leeching the tension away from him. His eyes closed, fingers splayed along the older man’s throat, and he struggled to listen to the Dai’s reply, still half-expecting an angry retort.

Malik snorted. “Probably no more than what I deal with in the Bureau, Altaïr.” he grumbled relaxing against Altaïr more. “And I was half expecting you to beg for my aid, so I figured I could be kind and offer it first.”

He let his eyes droop closed and slid his arm around Altaïr’s waist. “But we can talk about your piles of paper work later when we’re looking at them. And if you’re reading over every report the informants make, you’re clearly as stupid as I think you are. Your informants should know enough to judge when there’s something they need to tell you. Or set them up with handlers that report to you.”

He shook his head, chuckling softly. “No wonder you keep hiding in my Bureau, novice…”

Blinking back down at the Dai as he spoke, Altaïr leaned further into the hard cot and fought the grin that threatened the corners of his lips. “You know too damned much for your own good, Dai. I think I shall… let you deal with the informants, then. I’m certain they will welcome your methods.”

Splaying his hand lower over Malik’s shoulder, fingertips brushing against the raised scars at the edge of the man’s upper limb, he closed his eyes with a soft sigh. The morning would bring questions, he was sure, and yet more scrolls scrawled with the minute details of the region’s political struggles.

But for now, he was warm, satiated and content, and he dozed off to sleep swiftly, safe in the knowledge that the Dai would still be near when he woke.


End file.
